


Drench Your Soul in the Water

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse, glossed-over torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean turns to torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drench Your Soul in the Water

**Author's Note:**

> Set in S5’s “The End”/Croatoan-verse. Both this fic and “Phantasm” (forthcoming Sam/Dean) were outlined while listening to I am Kloot’s “The Same Deep Water as Me.” I can picture them getting high to that song.
> 
> fanbingo square: Exhaustion / Hallucinations & Visions

After the demon goes dormant, it’s pointless to continue. Dean should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. He’s out of practice, but doesn’t forget to keep his face cold and impassive. The demon might be watching, listening; Dean can’t afford to show any mercy, any kindness.

The possessed man is pleading with him in short, choked sobs — “Please…,” “I don’t know anything,” “Let me go.” Dean shuts it out, something he learned early in Hell: turn it into white noise or you go mad. He walks a wide circle around the chair, checking the Devil’s Trap (he’s never made that mistake again) and watching the poor bastard quiver in terror. The demon won’t hide forever, and maybe it’ll sing a different tune when Dean threatens exorcism. Apparently idiots who got themselves caught and sent home had to answer to Lucifer himself.

“Devil won’t be too happy to see you,” Dean says, moseying back to the table. It’s littered with everything from ice-picks to pliers, most of which he’s made use of today. Six bloodied fingernails are soaking in a petri dish of holy water. Dean is thinking of making the demon swallow them. “I hear Lucifer isn’t impressed by demons who let the dregs of humanity pick them off,” he continues, talking over the meatsuit’s pleas.

The demon doesn’t respond. The victim, on the other hand, has plenty to say, and continues begging for mercy and others things Dean cannot afford to give. Not right now.

He grabs the petri dish.

***

It’s dark when he opens the cabin door. The cool night air chills him to the bone, and he realizes that underneath it all he’d been sweating. Chuck is slumped against the wall, log books piled on the floor around him. He jerks awake when Dean shuts the door, blinking owlishly.

“So?” he manages to croak, searching Dean’s face.

Dean shuffles forward to sit on the stairs. The moon is a silver sliver in the clouds and the woods are quiet — though silent as they are, Camp Chitaqua’s location, two miles east, is not betrayed. Everyone knows better than to make noise.

“You were in there for hours,” Chuck adds when Dean doesn’t answer.

It comes slowly. His hands start to shake; a little at first, but soon he has to lace his blood-stained fingers together to hide it. The shivers move to his shoulders, his breathing — something frigid and sharp unfurls in his belly and it _hurts_ , makes him want to curl in on himself and cry out. He remains upright through sheer force of will, squeezes his eyes shut against the memories even though it doesn’t help.

He remembers being force-fed his own insides. He’s probably the only person alive who can tell you what your own kidney tastes like. He recalls having to bite into soft membrane, the surreal realization of being able to _feel himself eating himself_ even as he vomited it all up, and how they’d scraped it up and made him eat it again.

He remembers holding a woman’s small intestine like a coil of wire, feeding it into her inch by inch. Her teary eyes had nearly bugged out of her head as she choked on her own entrails. You can’t choke to death in Hell, so the gagging and suffocation just goes on and on until Alistair decides it should stop — and usually, all Alistair does is laugh.

_Did,_ a little voice in Dean’s head corrects him. _Alistair is dead._ Except Dean still sees him, sometimes; the nightmares never really stopped. Alistair’s won, anyhow: Dean has gone from spitting in his face from the rack to improving on his methods on Earth.

“Dean!” Chuck snaps. He sounds angry, but when Dean looks over at him, Chitaqua’s quartermaster only sighs with relief. He fiddles with some papers in his lap. “I guess it didn’t work?”

Dean shakes his head. “Fucking waste,” he says, voice wavering slightly. Waste all around: waste of time, waste of effort, waste of a man’s life. “Wherever the Colt is, it’s a big enough secret that they would rather head back to the Devil than let me give them an easy way out.”

Chuck ventures, “Did the possessed…?”

Dean shakes his head again. “Where’s Risa?” he asks, peering into the darkness.

“We didn’t know how much longer you’d be,” Chuck explains. “She went to divvy up perimeter checks, supply runs, and so on. She should be back soon.”

Dean nods. This cabin is always locked and strictly off-limits to everyone but Chuck, Risa, and Cas. At first, it was just added insurance against any demons possibly discovering Chitaqua’s location. Gradually, it spared the camp civilians from having to hear exorcisms and interrogations. And tonight … tonight it spared them from knowing what kind of sick fuck their leader was.

Risa picks that moment to push through the underbrush. “Anything?” she asks once she reaches the stairs.

“No,” Chuck answers for him as Dean drags himself to his feet.

“Burn the body,” he orders, “then you and Chuck can head back.”

She opens her mouth, questions on the tip of her tongue, but decides against it once she gets a better look at his face. Dean wonders if he looks as haunted as he feels. “Gotcha,” she replies instead.

“Dean,” Chuck calls after him. “You can’t let anyone see you like this.”

He waves an assent, then brushes past Risa and heads back to camp.

***

The whole leader-thing is bullshit, and Dean still isn’t sure how he got saddled with it. Then again, being both one of the eternally-fucked Winchesters _and_ the Devil’s brother probably contributed. Those closest to him know he’s just a hunter going through the motions — just another man whose only real advantage was being so fucked up _already_ that Lucifer walking the earth was just another fucking Tuesday. The rest are probably waiting for him and S— _Lucifer_ to Cain-and-Abel it out.

There was also the guilt. He’d screamed his consent to Michael for hours, soaked in rain and mud, only for Cas to walk — _walk_ — four miles to tell him the Host had abandoned them all. Some people knew Dean was Michael’s Vessel, some didn’t. Either way, he’d fucked up their one surefire chance of fighting back and owed them _something._

Okay, so maybe he does know how he got saddled with it. Doesn’t mean it’s easy. The first time Chuck came to him about inventories and food rations and pregnancies, Dean had no clue what to do. Turned out there was more to leading a rebellion than shooting zombies in the face, who knew?

They’re doing all right now, though. Camp is secure, supplies are thoroughly inventoried and divided accordingly, and the people generally feel safe. Spirits are even picking up a little now that word has spread of their mission for the Colt. Finally, they have a glimmer of hope — something to work for instead of just existing.

If only they could get a solid lead on it. By now Lucifer’s heard that the humans are searching for it, so the sooner they find it, the better. If that means kidnapping and torturing more demons, then….

His hands are shaking again. _Shit._ He grabs a fistful of his jeans and tries to stop thinking about syringes and razors — tries to stop _remembering._ The pangs in his stomach worsen, and he swallows, tasting, tasting….

Instead of heading to his own cabin, he goes to Cas’s. He stands outside for a time, debating whether to go in. The camp is quiet, but chances are good Cas is balls-deep in some girl, or sandwiched between a couple. Dean closes his eyes, sees electric red, and decides to chance it.

Cas isn’t having sex with anyone, but he _is_ curled into a position that doesn’t look like it’d be fun even _with_ sex.

“Hello, Dean,” the former angel says, neither strained from his contortion nor surprised to see Dean at this late hour. Then again, that might be because he’s completely baked. Cas is usually high as a Learjet.

Stoned or not, Cas’s welcome opens a floodgate. When Dean shuts the door he finally loses it, leaning against the solid wood and sliding to the floor.

“Cas,” he tries, but can’t manage more just yet. His throat is closing up. His whole gut aches.

“You’re on the floor,” Cas observes. “Do you want to do yoga with me?”

He shakes his head, staring at his hands.

“Well, don’t crowd by the door. Come make yourself comfortable. I know.” Cas unfurls his limbs from, from whatever the hell he was doing, and crawls over to his low table. “I’ll roll another one.”

“Cas,” Dean tries again, “I did — _something._ Bad.”

“I can tell,” Cas replies, rolling like he’s being timed. “You have the look.”

“No,” Dean watches him rise to his feet with surprising grace, “Cas, I told you we had a lead on the Colt. The demon wouldn’t talk. I tried to make him.”

“Did you?” Cas wonders, standing in front of him now. “Make him?”

Dean shakes his head again, tries not to think about it — about any of it.

Cas offers a hand up; Dean takes it. The ex-angel is still strong, though it’s a wiry strength now as opposed to an angelic. Cas leads them to his mattress — real futon, he calls it — where Dean can slump more comfortably. Dean lies there, spread-eagled, partly to relieve the pressure on his stomach and partly because he just needs to fucking lie down. He moves over when Cas returns with his new joint, and shrugs out of his jacket while his friend lights up.

Cas takes the first hit, then offers it to Dean. Dean declines; he’s just never really been one for it. Cas sits next to his prone form and takes another drag. “Tell me.”

“I see Alistair,” Dean confides. “In the mirror. I, I tortured a man to death. For nothing. And it was _easy_ , Cas,” he whispers. “That’s the scariest part. I went away, to the place where I spent most of my time in Hell, and it was like I was still there. Like _he_ was still there.”

Cas leans over and reaches for the cup on the floor. He hands it to Dean, who downs the contents without question, dropping back onto the sheets. Absinthe; cool and refreshing, with a hint of bitterness.

“Alistair is dead,” Cas reminds him, matter-of-fact. His profile is contemplative, one arm stretched out, elbow balanced on his knee. The joint burns between the fingers of that hand, and Dean watches the tendril of smoke weave its way upward.

He twists the empty glass around in his hands. “I know. Cas.” The mortal angel looks down at him. Dean grips the cup so tightly he can feel it protest, nearly breaking. “What am I doing?”

Cas takes another hit before he answers, blowing a smoke ring. “What you must. _Dean,_ ” he says, resting his free hand atop the straining glass. Dean lets him take it, but now there is nothing to focus on, nothing to settle the shaking. Fear and disgust roil around the absinthe in his stomach and he wants to throw up.

He rolls onto his side, willing the nausea to subside, and watches Cas move about his cabin. It’s more of a little temple, full of gongs and candles and Buddhas and other zen odds and ends Cas has collected over the past few years. Fucking Angel of the Lord became a Buddhist; whenever Dean thinks about it, it’s almost funny. Except Dean’s a frequent visitor to this Buddhist temple. He hides here, confesses here, whenever everything fucking goes to shit — which seems to be more often, lately.

Cas fetches a bottle of absinthe and returns to the bed. He refills the cup and gives it to Dean. This time it burns a little going down; must be a new bottle. Cas distills his own, according to how easily smashed he wants to get, and they don’t have the luxury of sugar to waste on the green fairy.

Dean holds his glass out for a refill, though, and Cas obliges. Two cups after that and Dean is considerably mellower, stretched out on his stomach and rubbing his numb face into Cas’s pillow. Cas is smoking another joint, lying lengthwise across the bed atop Dean’s thighs. Cas’s free hand is tracing Enochian on Dean’s T-shirt. His own hands have stopped shaking.

“I pulled his fingernails clean off,” Dean finds himself saying, sounding far away to his own ears. “Pumped him full of holy water and rubbed salt in his eyes.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says softly. Then, “You’re not him.”

“Aren’t I?” Dean laughs, bitter, but he’s too drunk now to feel the cold disgust. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it isn’t. “He didn’t know a damn thing, Cas. I didn’t stop, and the guy, he—”

“It is a deplorable act,” Cas allows, sitting up. He cards his fingers through Dean’s hair and rubs the back of his neck. “But demons only respond to pain, or deals.”

“No deals,” Dean says reflexively.

“No deals. But if the Colt is key, as you say, then we have to find it. Demons feared Alistair — feared his methods. A man who can torture the truth from demons?” Cas sighs, shoving what remains of his joint into the ashtray on the floor. “I think you’re the only one we’ve got.”

“Lucky fucking me.” It’s true, though. It hurts, how true it is. He rolls over, putting his back to Cas, watches a candle’s flame burn bright.

Cas crawls in to lie with him, fitting his front against Dean’s back like there’s a special slot for it. He smells like weed and sandalwood, his fingers warm when they slip under Dean’s shirt to rub soothing circles on his stomach. His other arm worms its way under Dean’s head. For a few poignant moments, Dean forgets, drunkenness giving way to a dreamy fatigue where it’s easier to keep his eyes closed than to watch the world fuzz in and out. Then deft fingers are loosening his belt, and Cas is nosing his ear, breath hot when he murmurs, “Do you want to?”

It isn’t the first time he’s asked. Cas has reached a point in his new mortal life where he believes in blocking out all troubles and woes with sex — and God knows Dean has both of those in spades. But his relationship with Cas is convoluted enough.

“No,” he whispers, refusing as he always does, feeling mixed relief and regret when the fingers return to his middle. Pressed together as they are, he can feel Cas’s interest, but the ex-angel doesn’t insist.

“More absinthe, then?” Cas muses, lips moving across what he can reach of Dean’s neck. Dean lets him because — just because. “Or sleep?”

“Sleep,” Dean opts, eyes fluttering shut again. He sinks deeper into the mattress, feeling heavy and anesthetized.

“Hmm,” Cas tuts, throwing a leg over Dean’s. “I’ll keep the demons at bay,” he promises, like it’s something he’s even capable of, and wraps his arm more securely around Dean’s middle.

The fucked up thing is, it _works._ With an ex-angel draped over him like a blanket, Dean sleeps deep and dreamless, drools on Cas’s arm and wakes up re-energized.

This leader-thing is bullshit, but someone has to do it.

 

~End.


End file.
